


open tab

by trailingviolets



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dreamsharing, Escapism, F/M, Golems, Kylo's a former UN rep, One-Sided Attraction, Past Abuse, Post-Nuclear War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Addiction, References to Depression, Rey's a waitress, Strangers to Lovers, Voyeurism, credit based economy, maladaptive daydreaming, visual simulations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailingviolets/pseuds/trailingviolets
Summary: Rey works the graveyard shift at a simulation den. One night she takes pity on a customer whose visions she gets lost in.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 49
Kudos: 90
Collections: Reylo Hidden Gems





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**Author's Note:**

> tw: light mentions of past abuse

Rey hates making rounds.

It's true what people say; nothing good happens in the rooms after midnight.

The pictures in the break room depict a warm, idyllic past. Before the war there was no need for the graveyard shift.

Customers had families to return to, places to be.

Now the simulation rooms are full of golems, shadowy figures that used to be human. Each one a disturbing reminder of what people are without hope.

Most quit eating to save money, blowing through their credits in a matter of months or years. They all die the same way, malnourished, gaunt and mute. Lit only by the snowy light of the screen. 

Room 30 is the last in the queue to be checked, occupied the longest by the same person. 

He used to be handsome. According to the tracker he was even moderate, showing up for a few hours on weekends or holidays. 

The ID on the door still shows an alias, not a name. From back when it was taboo to visit the rooms after dark, drunk or in a stupor. 

OpenTab, K. Ren.

There’s nothing Rey dreads more than checking acuity. It never gets less awkward, never feels like anything more than a cruel breach of privacy. 

She resents men the most, being forced to enter their sick fantasies. In a city of broken glass, with no bakeries and no Christmas, the least they can do is imagine something beautiful that was lost.

Instead they dwell on things -or women- they were never going to have.

Except Ren doesn’t indulge in violence. He prefers to replay the mundane. Watching old movies, cartoons and scenes from the past. 

Eating ramen on the carpet with his college friends Tai and Hux. Hiding at the top of the stairs while his mom played piano. The time he won the district spelling bee. His first dog, Proxima, who knew how to open the fridge.

He was so shy. People must not have known how much he loved the time they spent together, how one day he would hold it in his palm and scroll through it with a remote, pausing every two or three seconds.

So many times Rey had to wait, curled against the door while he shook with sobs on the other side. Repeating a highlight reel of birthdays and kisses and summers, memorizing the details that would otherwise fade away and be forgotten.

She does the same in the barracks, lying still just before dawn. 

What was her mother’s middle name. Her favorite book. Her belief about heaven. What did she do with her cursive letters, did she flourish her name or leave it open-ended?

It's no wonder Rey can't sleep.

\---

“Sir?” 

Not even a glance. 

“Sir, your attention please.”

Ren doesn't seem to understand. He ignores the proffered glass of juice in her hand, ending the simulation only to stare at the screen in dismay. Clearly lost as to what she wants from him.

Rey smiles bitterly, thinking again of the reality outside. She could be content with just the buzzing quiet, the four empty walls surrounding them. 

At this point, oblivion sounds like a resort vacation.

“Sir-”

Rey can’t help but startle, jumping back when the lights kick on. 

During training she made the mistake of asking about golems, thinking it was a funny, storybook name. The lack of an answer still haunts her. How the instructor ignored her question, turning sharply away.

Now she knows why -because without the screen they’re inanimate, dead inside.

Ren’s a worse mess than most with long, straggly hair that's matted in tangles, jeans that are molded stiff to his body. He has lines down the dirt on his face from crying, scars on his cheeks from clawing at his eyes. 

His body's tipping the threshold of what it can physically take. 

He’s not long for the world.

Her hand shakes as she offers the juice again, trying not to make eye contact. Feeling silly for the gesture, stupid enough to meddle when it’s already too late. 

Except he takes the glass, draining it in greedy gulps. Setting it down next to him, refusing to let her take it away.

“I’ll bring more,” Rey says. “You have my word.”

At the bar she charges her ID once, twice in direct succession. Pulling down dusty jars of moonshine, apple juice and the most expensive delicacy they offer, powdered chocolate milk.

He’s sitting on his hands when she reenters the room. As ever, too cautious to make the first move. She knows the story.

Ren disappointed his father by being a worrywart. For having meltdowns over grades, the economy, and manual transmissions at age seven.

Rey thinks it’s probably why he survived the nukes.

It’s a running joke that everyone left alive was wearing a tinfoil hat for years before it became popular. Rey self-identifies as a cockroach, equipped from birth for disaster. 

“Here,” she says, presenting him with the tray. “All for you.”

Ren’s voice cracks. It’s an awful, dry sound that makes her heart twist. Lots of them can’t talk, can’t see too well from years spent inches from the screen. 

“Booze first,” she says. “Then conversation. In case you forgot how a date’s supposed to go.”

It’s been years since Rey had anyone to snark at. In her past life as the silent type she never imagined missing casual banter, much less rapport with a customer.

There was a lot she wasn’t prepared to miss. For example pretty, long-haired men. Rey would give her left arm to be smoking a cigarette in the backseat of his beamer, underwear stuffed in her pocket. 

Instead they’re both prisoners. Trapped in a system that flashes _insufficient credit_ warnings instead of offering advice, solace for the loss of everything that used to be good. 

“Did you lose your parents, too?” she asks. 

Ren doesn’t simulate the recent past. The last thing she caught was a news broadcast months before the second bombing, how he held his mother as she cried. With nowhere to run they were both so brave. 

Rey remembers that day. How she went home and smashed her grandfather's heirloom china, inconsolable on the floor.

Ren shakes his head at her question. Holding up a finger for her to wait while he fiddles with the remote dials. 

Room 30 goes dark, then blindingly white, fading in on a fatal shouting match between Ren and his father. 

It’s a nasty one, even for Rey who grew up in and out of foster care. She could write a tell-all book about the aftermath of a forbidden insult, one that really says _I know you and I wish I didn’t._

“I can’t believe he said that to you,” she tells him. “You’re not a failure. Just because you worked for the UN, you were expected to what, save the world?”

He looks away from the simulation at that, possibly for the first time. Studying her face like she's said something revelatory.

It bolsters Rey to really let Han have it. Truth be told, she’s been looking forward to this for a long time.

So she gets close to the screen, shouting directly at it-

“By now you should’ve gotten the memo that this shitty world can’t be saved. And if you have such a burning desire to be a goddamn hero, start by showing your son some fucking sympathy.”

Her arms are crossed, her eyes glued to the screen as Han recedes. Stomping out of Ren’s apartment for the last time, out of his life. 

“Do I speak for you?” she asks. Thinking, _do you wish I was there?_

He nods.

“Is there more you’d like to add?” 

Ren shakes his head, just that close to smiling. 

“Good, then. Good riddance.” 

\---

As she’s cleaning up the glasses, Ren tries to slip her his credit pass. Gesturing for her to swipe it, holding up a number. 

Five thousand. 

She scoffs, sticking the card in his shirt pocket. Laying a hand on his shoulder, surprised to find it warm.

“Not a chance in hell,” she says. “Just think of me. I don't have anyone else.”

\---


End file.
